


Destiny

by Anonymous



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon - Book, Canon - Video Game, Consensual Sex, Cunnilingus, Destiny, F/M, Feelings, Feelings Realization, Fix It, Geralt and Ciri are not father and daughter, Happy Ending, Heterosexual Sex, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, It's not detailed, Mentor/Protégé, No Beta, Not Beta Read, Sex, Sex Magic, Short Story, Slow Burn, This isn't a daddy fic, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Wordy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:02:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27345511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “You are my destiny, Geralt of Rivia-“Her voice cut through the memory, for it had to be a memory. He was shaking, and was thankful for the distance and the fire between them as the words poured from her mouth and ran over his skin as ice water.“I would also like to see Vesemir.” She said softly, not looking at him. He was thankful for the grounding word. The memory was clawing at him, trying to come back, but he shook it off valiantly. She sighed deeply, setting down the pauldron her face a mask of hurt. “I feel as if we have neglected him. We have spent two years on the path, yet we avoided the keep like the plague.”She looked up to Geralt then, and Geralt ran a hand over his face to hide his own distress at her gaze.“We have been running.” She stated, refusing to look away, refusing to let him have a moments respite to recover from the visions that were pricking at him. “Always running. I am sick of running, Geralt, from all of it. I faced the results of my woes once, and I feel I should do it again. I feel we owe it to Vesemir, to not watch his hard work crumble into dust. If I am to be the last witcher, I aim to preserve that which has been left behind. I can’t run from destiny forever.”
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 9
Kudos: 52
Collections: Anonymous





	Destiny

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> I have always wanted to write a Geralt/Ciri hookup, but I didn't have the balls for the longest time. I finally grew them, but I shall remain anonymous for now! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I did writing it.

It had been two years since the events of the Wild hunt.

For a month, Geralt wandered listlessly. After the events which sealed Ciri away in an unknown land, he found himself wandering through the swamps of Velen, tracking down the final crone which had stolen Vesemir’s amulet from Ciri. In the end, a boon was granted to him, by the very creature he had freed from the roots of the oak. The crone’s mother, now a frightening looking black mare called her wayward daughter to her, and Geralt had taken the amulet.

He learned much from the Black mare after he had stuck the final blow. She had many names, but she preferred to be addressed as Elphame. She was as old as the dragons, perhaps older. The land of Velen had been hers, given to her by her husband. Her husband’s assistant, a wily creature who’s name she did not speak, was jealous of her. He sent to her a lover to try and woo her, and she, thinking it a gift from her husband, was wooed. However, the lover, was nothing but a donkey dressed in fae’s skin.

Her husband, angered at her dalliance, thought it best to turn her into a horse, so that she at least could have some use to him. What he did not know, is that she was pregnant at the time. His anger twisted the babes yet unborn, and the trickster assistant was sent to help her rear them. He reared them so that they would hate their mother.

He reared them so they would kill their mother.

But Elphame, could not be killed. Not by such crude means. When they bound her heart in the roots of an oak tree, she could not move from the spot until a man, who was of pure intentions, listened to her plight, found her body, and found her a new body that she could possess. Many had tried, and failed over the years, but Geralt had been the one to succeed. She had slowly been making her way through her daughter’s lands, and taking the souls of which had been corrupted by them, unknowingly, and allowing them to find peace.

Geralt asked her what her plan was, and she in turn asked him what his was. Geralt didn’t know. He was trying not to think about it.

She left him with a promise. That everything would work out in the end, and everything he had lost would be returned.

He thought it foolish, but he was thankful, as he gripped his master’s old amulet in his hands.

It had been nearly a month, when he was woken at a run-down inn somewhere north of Mortara in Temeria. He was met by a set of steely elven eyes, and he had a message. Ciri was returning. Ciri was returning and she demanded that they both meet her in the place she had left them.

Tor Gvalch'ca.

Geralt didn’t like Avalac’h. He hadn’t liked him when he first met him in the caves on his original search for Ciri, and he liked him even less now, after he had learned that Ciri and the elf had traveled with one another, while Geralt lay dazed and confused by his loss of memory. But not liking someone, had truly little baring on the fact that both were demanded, so the witcher, and the elf, begrudgingly set off to Skellege as both of them insisted they would do anything to see Ciri home safe.

They arrived at the isles in the height of winter. Geralt found the cold in the isles unsettling, and it burned straight through to his skin, as everything was always humid and damp. Avalac’h too shivered as hey made camp. For an elf who had ridden with the red riders, he was a fussy creature, who despised the cold.

It had been far harsher a ride then either the elf, or the witcher had been prepared for. The trip up the cliffs of Undvik, which was dangerous in a normal winter, was made even more hazardous by the strange energies which had never fully dissipated from the opening of the gateway. Specters of the hunt haunted the path, and several times Geralt and Avalac’h both had nearly lost their footing and plunged into the ice-covered sea as they defended themselves from wraiths which sought to bar their way. Cerys, hearing of Geralt’s travels to the island, had sent a small fleet of ships for support, but they waited not on the island, but in the shallows, waiting for the elf and witcher to return. They knew well that Undvik was far more dangerous now than it had ever been. It was little comfort.

They camped and waited for nearly a week, both tiring of each other’s presence quickly.

When Ciri at last set foot through the porthole, which opened with nearly as much fanfare as the first, Avalac’h moved to intercept her. She hissed, pushed him, and pushed him away. She looked around and saw him, and Geralt felt a piece of his soul come back to life. She looked so tired, so fragile. She stumbled forwards, falling into Geralt’s waiting arms. There were no words that were exchanged in that moment, for none were needed. She had just enough strength to smile up at him, and then she collapsed, her body falling limp.

When she awoke nearly a week had passed. They had traveled down the icy cliffs, and met with the fleet, who carried them to Kaer Trolde. As the week had carried on, Geralt got more and more angry. She wasn’t waking up! Every day he himself changed her bedding, and slowly dripped broth into her slack mouth, massaging her throat to get her to swallow. Avalac’h chided him, said he was worried over nothing, and it was only his ire at the elf, which staved off the rising waves of panic that threatened to overtake him.

When she finally awoke, it was in the throes of midnight. Her Green eyes darted around in panic before finding Geralt’s, and when they did, they filled with tears. She had faced down a nightmare, alone. She confessed that what she faced was an abstract, a concept. She was fighting against a force that neither saw reason, nor could be spoken to. She could not put it to the sword, for it had no body. She could not run from it, for it was everywhere. She had to travel forth, to the beating heart of it, and then seal it away with magic she had little control over. It had taken her days? Months? Years perhaps? She did not know. What she did know, however, is when she sealed the rift, the air stilled, and the feeling which had been haunting her since she was a child, the cold gripping fear of the end, ceased to exist. Geralt did not inform Avalac’h right away, that she had been awake. He let her rest, and recover.

The next day, when she awoke the second time, she did so with a determination that had Geralt’s chest constricting with pride. She woke, dressed herself in the functional armor Cerys had left her, and demanded an audience with Avalac’h, not in her room, but in the very chamber from which Cerys ruled.

Geralt could hear the dry click in Avalac’h’s throat as Ciri informed them that she had done as he asked, and sealed away the white frost so that its clutches were stilled. She informed him that the white frost, was a punishment sent to destroy the elves, because the gifts they had been given when time began, had been squandered. The statement angered Avalac’h and he told her that the frost was evil. But Ciri, she had done that which the elves could not. She had faced it. She faced it and she learned it was not evil, it was not good, it just simply was.

It was at that point which Avalac’h had demanded her to come with him. He did so with honeyed words, informing her that while she did defeat the frost, her magic was still untrained. He did so in a patronizing tone, after all, she was still young, and what could a young girl know of the power she held at her fingertips. Any and all civility she could have had with the elf in that moment was lost when the demand left his lips.

The fire which filled the room as she spoke, filled Geralt with pride. She berated him, her voice seeming to be made from the ice which the frost wrought. She informed him, in no uncertain terms, that his time with her was over, and he held no sway over her any longer. When he left the keep, shamed, and dogged by the voices of the islanders, she smiled ruefully. For in the end, she had used him, as much as she had been used herself.

The full tale of what had been done to her, came out only after they had reached the mainland. She confessed to Geralt, in detail what had befallen her when she had been taken to the land of Tir na Lia. Geralt’s anger filled him, but he listened, for she had demanded that he do so without interruption. In the end, she wound up using Avalac’h’s infatuation with her, to get him to turn sides, and to teach her how to use her powers. She did so by teasing him with a future he had insisted that he didn’t want, but that he coveted all the same. She told Geralt of the fact that it had been her that insisted that they rescue Geralt from Eredin’s clutches, and how Avalac’h, besotted by her, had only wanted to make her happy. He willingly spat in the eyes of his once brothers, and son and sought to please her, and only her.

The more she spoke on it, the more Geralt came to realize that Ciri had changed irrevocably both from the damage done to her by those who captured her over the years, as well as from the realization that if people wanted her for an heir, she could use them to do her bidding. She had, in essence, realized the lessons that Yennefer and Triss had attempted to impart upon her. But unlike them, Ciri used the power she wielded without guilt. Gone was the little girl demanding to be taught to be a witcher. Gone was the princess who he found running afraid and alone in the woods. In its place, stood a strong, powerful woman, who would use any means necessary to make sure her needs were met. Geralt’s heart was filled with awe.

The surprise comes one night as spring begins to thaw the land. Geralt had put Ciri’s original requests to be a witcher, away after he had seen her confront Avalac’h. He didn’t want to impose upon her, and he didn’t want to force her into something she didn’t want to do. So, when she came to him, at last, and requested to become a witcher, in full, Geralt had agreed. The joy that filled her expression as he nodded, could have sustained him for a lifetime. Shortly thereafter he gathered the others, what was left of them, and they informed them that Ciri had chosen her path. She began, yet again, the trail of choice.

They had talked about it long and hard. Geralt, his brothers, and Ciri herself and for once It was a strange instance where they all agreed. Even Lambert, who was against the program itself, stated that it was the best course of action. But that brought about another problem. Being a witcher, while lonely work, was public work. There was a very real danger of someone finding out about Ciri’s return, and seeking her out to use her for their own ends. This of course could be avoided if they had a mage they could trust, who could lead Ciri through the remaining trials. However, they didn’t have access to such a person. It was agreed, that until they had a mage which they could fully trust to see Ciri through the actual Trail of grasses, and Trail of dreams, that something had to be done to take her off the playing field for the powers of the world. It was another instance of Ciri taking the lead, for she had a plan.

She led them to Novigrad. She had aims to both reconnect to Dandelion, and to seek out the treatment that would keep her from being a pawn, permanently. The connections she had made had served her well, and as Dudu had taken over where Whoreson had left off, he was able to recommend a person who would be able to sterilize Ciri in such a way that it would be impossible to detect. Geralt didn’t want to think about the fact that this had been something Whoreson had utilized, but he was thankful none-the-less to the brave Dudu, who wore the face of a serial killer to try to make the world a better place.

It was as she was recovering from the effort, that the letter from Emhyr came, demanding an update on Ciri. Demanding that Geralt attend him, and speak to him of what befell his daughter. The letter came equipped with a division of soldiers who had seen Geralt in the city, so there was no way for him to escape their grip. Knowing full well the journey could very well be his last to Vizima, he left Ciri to recover in the Chameleon. He would have attempted to run with her, but she insisted that he meet with her father, and gave him her blessing to tell Emhyr that she was dead.

Emhyr hadn’t believed him. The first interaction had been short, and the Emperor had obviously been angered at the fact that Ciri hadn’t said anything about him in her last words before she went to see her destiny through. He sent Geralt away, speaking quite clearly that he never wanted to see him again. However, as he moved to leave, he was caught by the Chamberlin Mererid, and brought back before the stoic Emperor.

Their second interaction was not fueled by anger, but by resignation, and curiosity. Emhyr’s temper had lessened, and instead of demanding to know the truth, he asked for it. Nicely. Geralt told him of her choice then. He told him that she had told him to tell the Emperor that she was dead. Emhyr was rightfully baffled that she would say such a thing, but Geralt knew he had to shield her. Though he didn’t tell Emhyr exactly what had been done to his daughter, he informed him that her ability to bare had been compromised, permanently. It was in little comfort that Emhyr had learned that Geralt’s first words, while harsh, had been the truth. She had died. To the eyes of an Empire, she was no longer of use, she was no longer able to keep the bloodline going.

Geralt thought it was the end for him, and he prepared for the bellow of guards, and the cuffs which would take his magic away, but Emhyr had surprised him. It was a rare thing to be caught so off guard. Instead of calling for the guards he had turned to Geralt and relief flooded his eyes. Geralt recognized the look. It was the relief of a father who realized that with a single act, in which he asked no details of, she had made herself safe from so many. She had done what Emhyr had failed to do, keep herself safe.

Geralt returned to Ciri, after making a detour, his coin pouch fuller than he had ever felt it, and his bank account laden with coin to see Ciri outfitted properly. Emhyr’s last gift, and yet, he said to tell her nothing.

Geralt disagreed. He told her of Emhyr’s last gift, and she quickly shrugged. A witcher doesn’t scoff at coin so long as he isn’t being bought. Geralt and Ciri both agreed that his donation, was but a paltry part of that of which he owed. 

Ciri recovered quickly, but the time away, in the land of the end, had weakened her, and the surgery had taken its toll as well. They began to travel the path together in earnest. First with Ciri following, and working through exercises at camp, and then with her finally joining the hunts themselves. Gone were the barriers of the past which existed between them. Gone was the overhanging threat of the hunt. Gone was the noose which Emhyr had placed around Geralt’s neck. Gone was the yolk in which Geralt bore for Triss, who had used him, and gone was the magic tether that held Yennefer to him for years. It was just him, and Ciri, on the path. And he wouldn’t have changed it for the world.

The first year was harsh. The monster populations had increased and the conjunction, though stopped at Tor Gvalch'ca, had not been stopped elsewhere. It was a learning curve for Ciri, who had her training interrupted when she was a girl, due to manipulations beyond her control, and who had gained powers that could help, but caused bad habits. Geralt felt beholden by his past mistakes, and vowed to keep his promise to her. He vowed to break he down, and build her back up so that she could be what she was always destined to be. A witcher.

By the end of fall, when at last the contracts began to get scarce, Ciri had re-laid the foundations of which she could build on. She rarely, if ever, used her magic, and when she did, it was only to form the basic witcher signs, or to jump in when a fatal blow may be caused. As always, she was a quick learner. This time around, however, she learned faster. Gone was the hubris of the young. It had been replaced by the knowledge of a woman who had seen battle, and lived. She didn’t complain about her lot, even when Geralt made her repeat the most basic of instruction. It helped that he too was practicing side by side with her.

The winter saw He, Lambert, Eskel, and Ciri, overwintering in Novigrad. None of them wanted to return to the keep, but all of them wanted to be with one another, and share the first winter they had away from the keep. Everyone was nursing wounds of the past after all.

The solution came in the form of Dandelion. He had offered his home, a grand mansion which was his families, in the bridge district which had rooms for all of them. It also came equipped with a basement and armory which Dandelion insisted they use to keep their skills sharp. even as they put on the winter fat which would see them through another season on the path, they worked, sparing, keeping their skills up. They spent their days sleeping, and their nights trolling the taverns for which Novigrad was known for. Emhyr’s influence had calmed the city, and Nilfgaard’s strict rules about separation of religion from state affairs, had plucked the teeth straight from out of hierarch Hemmelfart’s mouth.

As the winter reached its peak, all four who were wintering had abandoned conventions, and like they had done at the keep, so very long ago, they chose to all pile onto the single, overly large bed which Dandelion had special ordered, and like the wolves they were, they snuggled into one another, sleeping soundly. Geralt thought that having Ciri there, a woman in her own right, would have set the other two on edge. But the moment she had declared the trail of choice, she too became a wolf. The female Alpha of their pack.

The dynamic between them shifted, but it was a shift for the better. Having Ciri around seemed to settle the other two. Lambert was still a prickly asshole, but he had softer eyes, and less tension. Eskel, who often was the most stoic of them on the road, became soft and pliant. They became a common enough sight around Novigrad that the novelty of the witchers wore off, and they were soon ignored just like the rest of the populace.

When Spring came, it came with more change. Eskel met Letho at the Passiflora, and he had brought the viper to the Chameleon. For the first time in a long time, Eskel seemed if not happy, then at least settled. He and Letho were going to travel with one another, south to Viccacorro. Knowing looks passed between them all, as they split, vowing to return in the winter once again. Geralt was happy. Eskel had long isolated himself on the path, and while it made little sence for them to team up, a season or three of being by Letho’s side would be a good change for them.

When Dandelion returned, he regaled Geralt, Ciri, and Lambert of his semester teaching at Oxenfurt. Zoltan in turn told of the misadventures had by the wolves and what had happened in the bar. In short, nothing much happened in either place, but both tried to make it seem as it had. A good time was had by all, but it soon came time to leave. The path was calling.

Geralt and Ciri decided to head east, to Aedern, while Lambert was heading north to Poviss.

The second year had Geralt with Ciri back on the herbs, mosses, and mushrooms that they had taken away from her after Triss’ intervention at the keep. Luckily, Ciri had retained most of her progress on that particular path, and other then a few weeks of stomach discomfort and simple foods, Ciri recovered quite admirably. The choice herbs had another boon, as soon as she was settled once again, she could imbibe in the potions that the witchers took, all be it at much smaller doses.

The reason they decided to travel to Aedern was twofold. One, the witchers hadn’t graced that side of the Mahakam range in a few years, so the hunting would be good, if not excellent. Two, Ciri wanted to see Yennefer.

At this point, Geralt was not remiss to see her himself, but he knew she would be sore about Ciri’s disappearance, as well as her failure to appear in Yennefer’s presence after she had returned. They had written letters of course, but both women were stubborn, and Ciri herself had many reasons for her delaying their reunion. The biggest reason was she had been upset at Yennefer for breaking the wish between her and Geralt. Geralt thought it strange, but when he questioned her on it, she told him that her reasoning’s were her own. Ciri had also been upset at Yennefer for more or less serving her to both the lodge, and Vilgefortz, and forcing her to seek Avalac’h to help her through navigating her powers. It was a sore point, but Yennefer, with all her knowledge, was just as lost as the rest of them when it came to helping Ciri control her powers. It’s why she had brought the girl to Aretuza originally.

But in the end, Ciri’s love for the raven-haired sorceress of whom she still called Mama, won out. It was a complex relationship, and though Geralt didn’t understand the way they picked at one another he decided to show his support and not shirk his duties even though he felt awkward about their meeting.

Time, however, had tempered Yennefer’s hurt, and She greeted him as an old friend. Geralt smiled as they embraced, and it seemed to Geralt that her scent, which had once been intoxicating to him, had lessoned it’s pull.

In an unexpected twist, Triss was there. The moment Triss saw Geralt, she had blushed fiercely, but her scent told him it was not from lust, but from shame. He could smell Yennefer and Triss’ scent’s intermingled on one another. Though they attempted to say nothing of their new dynamic, they eventually confessed. Geralt felt a fleeting sadness from a lifetime ago, but set it aside and attempted to be happy for them. After all, he is the one that said the magic had gone away. He supposed that it was a good thing that they had both moved on. It saved him from making a mistake with one, or both of them.

The story of how they came to be together was fairly straight forward. Yennefer and Triss had sought solace with one another after Geralt had rejected them both. In their commiseration they found a common ground. The love that blossomed between them did so as a seed which had been buried long in ice, waited, somewhat impatiently, for the snow to thaw. While they both attempted to admit that they hadn’t seen it coming, Geralt saw the way that Triss had shifted and bit her lip. Perhaps the reason Triss went after Geralt in the first place, was to garner Yennefer’s attention. In the end he was, if not happy for them, then at least pleased that they had not suffered their sorrow alone. Even if he had been the cause.

Yennefer had been incensed that Ciri hadn’t come to her promptly after her return to the continent. Ciri, however, had particularly good reasons for it. She did so to protect herself. When Ciri informed Yennefer what she had been doing, and what she had done to take control of her life once more, Yennefer’s ire washed away in startled realization. For the first time since the destruction of Avalac’h’s labs in Skellege, Yennefer sat with Ciri, and they spoke frankly and easily on years of shared history, and the reasoning Ciri had made to take the path she had. Geralt too listened in, hearing many memories and stories he had not heard before.

They laughed, and carried on, and soon they both forgave one another. Yennefer insisted to take Ciri to the city, and left Triss and Geralt alone at Yennefer’s sizable estate. Apparently, Triss’ love for Yennefer, had not completely erased her love for Geralt. He was surprised when she confronted him, and attempted to seek his bed. Geralt had startled at the action, thinking the matter settled, but Triss insisted there was still something, a spark, between them. Geralt, however, had gotten in the habit of being far more honest with himself then he ever was in the past. He didn’t like Triss, not in the way that she hoped, and not enough to wound the budding relationship between her and Yennefer. Geralt had also come to cherish the freedom of not having to worry about a relationship, or another person besides Ciri. It was the first time in nearly two decades that he had been free of such, and it left him feeling light, and unburdened.

The conversation with Triss was honest, yet soft. Triss was not a malicious person by nature, but she did covet love more than anything else. In the end, it came out that Yennefer had actually pushed her to confront Geralt, to see what he would do. Geralt was exasperated, but he was also determined to not force a wedge between Ciri and Yennefer. He knew Yennefer wanted to know how he would reject her, because Yennefer, if nothing else, tended to be cruel when she thought she was going to be spurned. She also had obviously not trusted Triss, or Geralt to not fall to temptation. Geralt was tired of playing the games, so he circumnavigated them. He offered his hand in friendship to Triss, asking that their friendship, if nothing else, be mended. It had surprised Triss, and Yennefer both.

But it was more than that to Geralt. He had made the conscious decision to try to be a better man. His near death in Rivia, and his downward spiral, and subsequent memory loss, had left him in a strange sort of tailspin. When he collected his memories once more, he did not like the person that he had been, and who he was becoming. He had been selfish, brooding, and full of self-loathing. Vesemir, before he died, had sat him down and they had spoken about a great many things. The old witcher had told him that the order of witchers was fast disappearing, and there was absolutely no need to pretend to be unfeeling warriors anymore. He had told Geralt, to just be true to himself, and that the rest would soon fall into place.

He had been right. And Geralt was not going to disparage his memory by failing to show his emotions any longer. Yennefer seemed impressed, and Triss had seemed warmed. When Ciri and Geralt at last said their goodbyes, it had been on excellent terms with both sorceresses’.

They were two days outside of Vengerberg when Ciri confronted him. The fire between them was lit not to provide warmth, but to roast the brace of hares Ciri had snared that morning. She confessed to Geralt that she had feared the worst, but that she was proud of him for talking to both Yennefer and to Triss, and for not getting angry at them for any past, or present, slights. She told him one of the reasons she had feared seeing Yennefer in particular was because she didn’t want Geralt to be angry. Geralt had proven her worry fruitless when he had greeted Yennefer warmly, and as an old friend. It had put her in awe of him. The compliment warmed Geralt from his cheeks to his toes. Even though the old voices barked in the back of his mind to insist that he wasn’t worthy of the praise. He shook off the voices of the past, and took the compliment, and allowed its honesty to fill him with happiness.

They began to travel once again in high summer. Aedern was warm, humid in turns. The monsters were fierce and plentiful. Ciri earned her first true new scar that she would carry with her for the rest of her days, struck by a claw of a fledder, which she subsequently defeated with ease. The mark joined her other scars and Geralt had stitched her up. He had offered her a dose of swallow, and a mild painkiller he made with willows bark. The pain from the wound, and the small fever, had made her seek comfort from him. It was the first time since she was a child, that she had curled up next to him as she slept. It was strange lying next to her as she shivered. It felt right, like it was the thing Geralt was ment to do.

When she woke the next morning, all smiles and full of boasting ego and teasing, Geralt couldn’t help the feeling of tenderness that snuck into his heart when he regarded her. It was a strange, and wistful thing. It, alongside the love he had for her, began to slowly grow as they traveled ever northward, leaving Geralt warm with fondness, and a feeling he didn’t quite know the name for.

They arrived in Kaedwen in the late summer when the Cicadas roared from the trees and the air was heavy and hot. It was here that they surprisingly met Yarpon, and Yarpon had treated them to a veritable feast with the coin from his own pocket. Kaedwen, like nearly all the countries in the north, had been taken over by Nilfgaard, and protections had been raised to keep the non-humans safe and secure. Yarpon had been instilled as an ambassador representing Mahakam, following through on his dreams of becoming a Politian.

Geralt was caught off guard, when Yarpon confessed that he was still involved with Saskia. She had abandoned her attempt to rule when she had failed to control her transformation. She happily allowed the council of Kaedwen’s elders to take control, but they soon were cowed by Redania, and then once again by Nilfgaard. Though she had handed over the rule of upper Aedern back to the humans she had not separated herself from Yarpon. She had dyed her hair, and shorn it, and changed her appearance just enough that no one would suspect that she had been the dragon Queen of Upper Aedern, and she now lived life as the wife of Yarpon, who people wrote off as having a strange kink for human women. When Yarpon told the story of Saskia to Ciri, Ciri was absolutely enchanted, and the women struck up a fast and easy friendship.

A few weeks had passed, as Ciri and Geralt hunted around Ard Carraigh. It was a trying time for Ciri as a trainee witcher. Here in the near wilds of the north, larger monsters were far more common, and even though it had only been a few years since witchers had walked the lands, the monsters seemed to know it, and grew brave in their absence.

Ciri had seen much death in her childhood, but seeing it now as a witcher ment that she had to handle it differently. There were some pains with this, as Ciri still felt choked up when they found a dead child, or a husband and wife in an embrace. The worst for her, was the ignorance of the sheltered villages, who both distrusted witchers, and desperately needed them. It was in one such village that she suffered her first true failure. Geralt was shadowing her, but he let her lead, and didn’t offer advice. This was her first test after all, but Geralt had faith that she could do it. She had to. Eventually she would travel the path alone. The thought made Geralt sad.

Ciri had taken on a contract, and from the start of it, she began to have problems. Immediately upon entering the village, Geralt knew that the Alderman and the people of the village were keeping important information from her. Something had been taking children in the night and they would find them dead in the morning their corpses cut apart and mangled to the point where they nearly couldn’t tell who they were. The alderman spun a tale about a fae who had cursed the village. The people of the village had agreed with him, but Geralt could see the tells, the strange glances, the paling of skin as they spoke to Ciri about their woes. The killing stopped as soon as they had appeared, and that was another sign that something didn’t add up.

Ciri went through the list of monsters who had a taste for human flesh, and would kidnap them at night, and tear them apart. People had witnessed the creature, but had just insisted that it was a cloaked monster. They said it was some sort of Sylvan. They described it as a starved and ugly creature with horns and a strange gait. But that too didn’t add up.

Ciri went and investigated the death sites, and she found hoof prints. She took them at face value, but Geralt knew immediately that they were not the hoof prints of a Sylvan, but of a common bovine. Ciri still began a search and laid out bait that would have been impossible for a sylvan to ignore. Bacon rashers. For nearly three days she kept vigil on the area she chose, which was far enough away from the village to not cause upset if the monster attacked, but well within the range of where the other bodies had been discovered. She was smart, and hid her scent well by covering herself in loam and deer droppings.

By the end of the third day, after a bath in a creek, and a heavy heart, she walked back to the village and told them that the monster had been driven off, and that she would not accept their pay. The village was angry, but so too was Ciri. She told Geralt that she was going to make one last attempt to see that the village was truly safe, and that she needed them to think they were gone. Geralt said nothing, and let her direct him to where she wanted to set up yet again.

Two more days passed, and Ciri stalked through the woods, noting paths and trails which people followed into the woods, and watching from a distance, any strange movements from the village itself.

The night the monster attacked, Geralt knew it before Ciri did. He had heard the voices coming from the village, and had recognized one of them as being the Alderman. He and Ciri were waiting in the dark silently, not daring to speak, when the scream went up, and caused the wolves in the area to howl, effectively masking it.

When they arrived at the scene, Ciri charged in without taking in what the monster was. Her silver sword was drawn, and breaking the rules Geralt and her had set, she blinked over to the cloaked figure who held the young boy under him. She cut off his head with a clean even stroke before the creature even knew she was there. When she peered at the head, she went pale, and all the elements she had missed came to light. The boy had been injured and drugged. The moment the blood hit him, and the large body collapsed on top of him, he fainted.

It was then, that Ciri saw that she was not the only member of humanity to suffer under another human’s foul touch.

The monster was the Alderman.

He was wearing a set of stilted boots, which he had cobbled with a set of Cow’s hooves. His balance had been off and stumbling simply because he could not stand all that well in the strange boots. Because Ciri had acted rashly, and had charged in with the sword, they were now without the primary witness of the deaths. Because it was Ciri’s sword that cut off his head, and she did so _after_ she had said they were leaving, it would look like a robbery, a revenge killing, or both.

Geralt crouched beside her as she made the realization, outlining every clue she had missed, every point she had failed. It was a point that they had all hit at one point or another. The moment of failure. It was absolutely inevitable. But it was also here that Geralt realized that her humanity, for all she had attempted to ignore it, was still very much alive and well. She wept, and this time, unlike at Vesemir’s funeral, she allowed Geralt to hold her for a moment.

In the end, they took the boy to the edge of the village, and dropped him off. If he survived the night, he would tell the villagers about the Alderman. When they traveled back to Ard Carraigh, Ciri notified the road guards as well as the constabulary that the village would be needing an Alderman. It was all they could do in light of the situation, and Geralt, had he made the same mistake as she, would have done far less.

When Summer turned to fall, and the leaves began to change, strange rumors began to circulate about an ashen-haired spirit who killed a Devil in the woods saving a boy. Geralt usually found comfort from rumors such as that when they were caused by him, but it made Ciri angry. Angry because she couldn’t do more. It was a harsh lesson learned.

Along with the autumn setting in, so too came a change in Ard Carraigh. People were rushing to get in the last of the summer harvests, and to plant cabbage and spinach and hearty plants that would grow and thrive in the cold winter. People began to gather items, prices began to go up, and traders began to get thin as the city began to buckle itself down for a long and harsh winter.

Two letters came, one right after the other. Lambert had traveled to Kerrack alongside Kiera, and he was going to winter with her. Eskel, who Geralt knew had traveled to Vicovaro with Letho, sent a letter saying that he was going to go further south, across the shallow sea. Letho and he were going to spend the winter in Zangibar, chasing down a lead for a monster that was harrowing the populace.

The letters themselves had dashed the hopes of both Geralt and Ciri, who were planning on wintering yet again in Novigrad. Geralt suggested that they travel there anyway, and Ciri, who was now world weary, and tired from the long season on the path, wasn’t keen on the idea. They still had some contracts to see too, so they laid into them before the season was over, and the monsters went into Hibernation like the rest of the world.

The final straw came when Yarpon and Saskia came to Geralt, saying that they had been recalled to Mahakam.

With a short but pleasant goodbye, Geralt and Ciri stood as strangers on the doorstep of a kingdom that was now focused on the immediate threat of the cold. The final contract they had, was to see to a group of harpies that had migrated into the area from the north. The contract had been uneventful as far as contracts went. And Ciri and Geralt made one last go of camping before they would turn south.

And so, two years had passed, and now Geralt sat, looking into the fire from a cave the witchers had used for centuries to camp before heading up to Kaer Morhen. Ciri was without her armor, wearing only a set of Braies, and her bindings, while she cleaned the mail jerkin she had taken to wearing. Geralt had already cleaned and oiled his own armor and had set it aside. He was focused on brewing a small batch of potions to replace ones he had used in the hunt. It was familiar, and Ciri, for all the strange solemnness she had as the season had pressed on, was humming an old Cintrian court tune as she rasped the wire brush through the oil and scrubbed the blood from her armor.

That same strange feeling Geralt really didn’t understand hit him again as he looked at her across the fire. Two seasons under his care, and two seasons on the choice trail concoctions, had filled Ciri out. She had the look of a proper witcher now. Her shoulders had broadened with muscle, as had her chest. Her waist, like Geralt’s was lean, and muscled, but she had retained some of her womanly traits in her hips, and the small patch of fat below her bellybutton which females never got rid of unless they were truly starving. She had scars now, not overly large ones, but marks, which heralded the path she had chosen to walk. Most would fade as time went on, but a few would not. Pride stole into Geralt’s thoughts as he watched her work.

“Geralt, I have a suggestion, and I hope that you will hear me out on it.” She stated suddenly, startling Geralt from his somewhat wistful staring.

“One night of supping upon the Mahakam reserve was more then enough.” Geralt shot back at her, smiling as she winced in memory.

“Oh, believe me, that is not something I am going to be partaking in again any time soon.” She shot back, setting down her jerkin, and grabbing a pauldron. “No, the season has gotten late, and by the time we reached Mahakam, the first snows will have fallen, and I have no want to be trapped anywhere near Drakenborg.”

Geralt grunted in agreement on that. While the Lodge may have lost its teeth, and Ciri had taken herself outside their game by her sterilization, it would put them far too close to the erstwhile home of Philippa Eilhart and the remaining, and likely new, Lodge members.

“So?” Geralt frowned, tossing a stick into the flames. “I also have no want to be caught in Rivia for the winter. Or anywhere near Dol Blathanna.”

At this Ciri grunted in agreement. She knew of Geralt’s past, and Queen Meve still may take umbrage to the presence of the witcher. Rivia and Lyria had yet to be touched by Nilfgaard, and they still had their own rules, and prejudices. The area held foul memories for both Ciri, and Geralt, due to Geralt’s near death in a pogrom.

“I think it’s time we return to the keep.”

Geralt hadn’t expected that. The shock of her words sent a strange feeling of fear through his bones, and made his knee ache. He rubbed at it absently, only to catch her staring at him, as if she knew his tell.

“I say this for a few reasons,” She began, her voice hinting at the princess she once was. “The first of which is, logically, it is both the closest, and safest place we could winter.”

Geralt nodded. If the weather held, which at current, it wasn’t, it would take them three days or so to make it to the keep from here. He looked to the cave entrance where snow had begun to fall. It was going to be a light snow, and the next day would be warm enough that it would melt it. Snowfall now would mean that they would only have a short window to head up the pass, and if they dallied, they may get stuck, or injured trying to make their way to the keep. He was pulled from his thoughts yet again.

“The second is again, practical.” Ciri shrugged, as Geralt looked back to her. “My failure this fall with my contract, has made me realize that a single years’ worth of proper witcher training, as well as book reading and the like, did not prepare me as much as I would have hoped for the job I hope to do. I would like to return to the keep, to pour over the books we have, and learn what I can, and re-learn what I ignored. Much like most things in my life, I have jumped straight into doing the job I want to do, without building the basics up. Yes, I can fight. Yes, I have you guiding me, but I feel like I am missing out on something important, and I think perhaps I may discover it in the keep.”

“That is very sound logic.” Geralt stated flatly. “And you are right. You did pointedly ignore much of what we were trying to drill into you, but that was our own failing as well. The keep had never seen a female witcher. It had been nearly seventy years since the halls had a fresh recruit. We too did not put the full effort of seeing your training through, simply because we were happy to have anyone at all who showed the slightest bit of interest. We let you get away with much. But I am actually somewhat surprised, and honestly impressed by the fact that you see, and admit your failings. You may yet become a true witcher.”

At the words of praise, Ciri blushed fiercely. Without her tunic, he could see the blood flushing down her neck as the capillaries opened. She smiled a small smile, her eyes focused on her pauldron, and Geralt sat up a little straighter. She looked beautiful in that moment. She looked beautiful with the blush across her neck and chest, with the dust and the dirt of the road, caked in a line around her neck and armpits, and the small cuts she sustained on her arm from the harpy’s fierce claws. Geralt felt his mouth run a little dry, and guilt coil through his stomach. Yennefer had called her beautiful many times. Geralt had seen the practicality of her looks just about every day. But something about the idea that she wanted to go _home_ , something about her cleaning her armor, with her newly earned Witcher’s build, began to prickle at him.

He knew what it was. He wasn’t a fool. When he saw her lying dead on the bed in the isle of mists, something in him had broken loose and wide. It struck again when he had her at the keep, safe and sound for all of a few days. And again, when they traveled, just the two of them to see to her errands. He was bound to her. He was bound to her as her guardian. But when she addressed him, up until the wild hunt, she had called him her destiny. She called him Geralt when she called Yennefer Mama. A strange sickening feeling slithered through his gut as he replayed all those moments between them.

_“You can save him, Child of the elder blood. Before he plunges into the nothingness which he has come to love. Into the black forest with no end.” Green eyes, bright and beautiful, and a small hand guiding lower, gripping at him. Heat, warmth, and the smell of blood. Passion, magic, and a voice calling out above him in pleasure as the forest around them burned._

_“You are my destiny, Geralt of Rivia-“_

Her voice cut through the memory, for it had to be a memory. He was shaking, and was thankful for the distance and the fire between them as the words poured from her mouth and ran over his skin as ice water.

“I would also like to see Vesemir.” She said softly, not looking at him. He was thankful for the grounding word. The memory was clawing at him, trying to come back, but he shook it off valiantly. She sighed deeply, setting down the pauldron her face a mask of hurt. “I feel as if we have neglected him. We have spent two years on the path, yet we avoided the keep like the plague.”

She looked up to Geralt then, and Geralt ran a hand over his face to hide his own distress at her gaze.

“We have been running.” She stated, refusing to look away, refusing to let him have a moments respite to recover from the visions that were pricking at him. “Always running. I am sick of running, Geralt, from all of it. I faced the results of my woes once, and I feel I should do it again. I feel we owe it to Vesemir, to not watch his hard work crumble into dust. If I am to be the last witcher, I aim to preserve that which has been left behind. I can’t run from destiny forever.”

Oh, how he wished she hadn’t used that word. That pungent, petulant word, which echoed around his head like a bell. She was looking at him, determination in her gaze, and try as he might, he could not conjure the image of the innocent child he had left in her uncles’ arms, but instead saw her, bright, passionate, and ready to fight for what she believed in. He knew she expected him to answer her, and he owed her one. One and a thousand more.

“You are right.” His voice came out a gravely growl, with far too much emotion in it that he wanted to bottle up and lock away. Her eyes brightened, and his stomach tightened, and he turned from her gaze to look at the snow.

“We owe him,” He spoke softly, his words carrying around the cave. “We owe him, we owe my brothers, and we owe ourselves.”

The smile she gave could have melted the whole of the north in the clutches of midwinter.

“Your armor is as clean as it’s going to get.” He chided, chancing a look back to her, and finding that the fire within him had died with the new knowledge and new plan. “Rest up, we leave before dawn. We need supplies, and if we tarry any longer, we will break ourselves trying to be able to afford to not starve throughout the winter.”

She laughed a little and tossed aside her armor, and pulled her furred blanket around her shoulders. The loss of her body to his eyes, made him sigh in relief. And her smile as he lay back on his own bedroll made him chuckle softly.

“Agreed.” She stated, laying down, her body obscured by the fire now. “See you in the morning, Geralt.”

Geralt wished he could have said that he had issues sleeping. That the sudden realization of many things in short order had made his mind spin in on itself till dawn broke, and he still hadn’t fallen to slumber. But his thoughts, the moment he hit the bedroll, ceased to spin up, and instead, the comforting feeling of this being right, relaxed his body, and pushed him into sleep almost before he heard Ciri’s soft breaths across the fire.

They had awoken the next day, and with a new task, and goal, both had set out with determination to see to it that they had what was needed to survive a winter at the keep in Kaer Morhen. They dropped the harpy’s heads to alderman of the small village they had helped, and then they went back to Ard Carraigh, and began to barter for what they needed. In the end, they had two fully laden wagons with supplies enough to keep them from starving. Most were preserving materials. Salt, herbs and spices, oil, candles, torches, and so many other small things. Both had purchased new clothing, winter clothing. And both had also bought enough soap, and oil to last them till Geralt could get the lab back up in working order and they could make their own soaps and oils. They didn’t bother with unnecessary things. There was no meat in their packs, other than that which would sustain them till they arrived in the keep proper. There were no Vegetables in them either. The mountain had been seeded with Yams, potatoes, carrots, and many other vegetables, that would sustain them throughout the winter. He did, however, buy seeds that they could plant for winter crops, providing that Vesemir’s greenhouse was still intact. They also bought furs a plenty, and Geralt himself had dropped a hefty sum on some Karakul coats for them, so they could see out the winter in comfort.

Instead of buying horses to see their loads to the mountains, they bought oxen. A full team of them for both wagons. It was a sound purchase, as they would slaughter them throughout the winter, and make stews and dry their meat for the spring and summer.

The memories of the previous night were washed away by practicality and logistics.

They opted to stay a final night in Ard Carraigh, and set out in the morning. Geralt was thankful, and he was sure Ciri was as well. He followed her as she darted into a whorehouse, and smiled to himself as he went to seek out the same. He purposefully picked out a plump and jolly whore with graying hair and the marks of several babes across her belly. She was a happy thing, and was happy to service him in any way he saw fit, and though he had feared an inability to perform, her cleaver mouth and enthusiasm charmed him, and eased the strain which had been building for far too long.

When they met up in the morning, the air was chilly, but promised a rare warm late fall day. Spirits were high as they drove the carts through the small villages that began to thin and get smaller the further, they traveled along the Gwenllech. Ciri had prattled on most of the day in her excitement. They pulled the oxen into an old fort, which again, had been along the main path of the witchers back when they traveled in a great many numbers. Its walls had mostly crumbled, but there still was a wind shelter for them, and the animals.

But being still, and being in Ciri’s presence, and her still smelling of the whorehouse and the women she spent the night with, made Geralt have questions. Questions he hadn’t really felt like he wanted to know before, but now burned into the back of his brain.

“Why do you like women?” He blurted, and Ciri, for the strangeness and suddenness of the question laughed musically.

“Why do you want to know?” She asked, cocking an eyebrow to him, and wiggling it. The action made Geralt huff and frown.

“Just noticing a pattern, that’s all.” He stated, and it was true. She seemed to believe him, and she nodded softly, taking a bite of the stew they had made.

“I won’t bore you with a lie, or dance around the subject.” She stated, swallowing her mouthful. “You know of what happened to me. Because of that, I find women much more agreeable. And if I am to be more then frankly honest, a woman in a whore house is less likely to fall in love with me, and make things awkward. If you go into a whorehouse as a female, and order a female, that female already by default has little attraction to you. They are pretty to look at, and in my case familiar. We work much the same with small differences here and there. If I go into a whore house and order a male, already it is a rarity. Most male whores are going at it out of need for coin, and most males in a whore house expect to serve other males.”

Geralt nodded softly.

“If I ask for them, and it is a rarity when I do,” Ciri grinned. “They tend to spout stupidities that other women would want to hear, even if I tell the Madam what my expectations are beforehand. A phallus is a phallus, and be it attached to a man or a woman, it matters little. I would rather be serviced, take the edge off, and not have some whore begging me to take them with me, or to settle with me. I find men to be clumsy creatures in bed, and woefully ignorant of how to please a woman. Sometimes they are strong, and wish to prove that strength. I dislike being cowed, and held down, double so with a man.”

Geralt hummed and nodded. It made sense.

“What of you?” She cocked her brow again her expression becoming mischievous. “You so brazenly asked why I had my preference, why do you have yours? Why do you like women, Geralt of Rivia?”

“I don’t like just women.” Geralt looked at her evenly, and smirked a little as she began to blush. “But like you I have problems. If I am able to go to a whore house that will service witchers, I more or less have to take whatever I can get. My Libido is fierce, and a woman can take it far better than a man can. A normal man spends himself then wants to wait and roll over. A woman spends herself, and within moments is ready to go again. It’s a matter of practicality in most cases. On the rare occasions when I order a man, I want it for one purpose, to let go and have him service me.”

The blush turned fierce, and Geralt smirked and decided to run with it.

“That’s when the problem with men comes into play.” Geralt bemoaned grabbing his wineskin. “There is only so long they can go at it before they are so chapped even lanolin is no comfort. And if I can even convince them I won’t tear them apart, or pinch their dick off, most don’t want to be the one servicing, but rather the one serviced. It is rare to find a man in a whore house with the physicality I appreciate. Most are like Dandelion, flouncing about like mice dressed as peacocks. I like strength, I like to pretend to be overpowered.”

The smell of Ciri’s sudden arousal flooded the small alcove, and he watched her as she licked her lips and frowned.

“But as to what I like about women?” Geralt asked, changing the subject, and jolting Ciri from her thoughts. “I like honesty. I like strength and fierceness. I like a woman because she tends to be the opposite of me. Back in town I had a whore who had been a mother at least four times over. Most men would look at her and only take her due to desperation. But I find the flaws in women some of the most charming. They are a study in contradictions. Strong enough to bear the pain to have children, yet soft in a way man, even the most effeminate could never hope to be.”

There was a beat while Ciri processed the information. Geralt felt that strange thing twisting around in his gut once more.

“And, if I am to be honest, being with a woman, reminds me that I don’t have to be harsh all the time.” Geralt said voicing something that he had never voiced before. “People have expectations of me. They expect me to go mad with lust, to become an animal. But I am a man, and a strange mutated one at that. I like the surprise when I take a woman apart piece by piece, and place her back together again in bliss. I like being soft, and watching as goose bumps form from a feather light touch. I like holding a woman, and smelling her and petting her hair, and for a moment, making her feel safe and wanted. It’s a piece of myself I rarely get to share, and because of its preciousness, I often only show it to strangers because I am afraid of what someone will do if I give that piece of myself to them and they know me.”

The smell of arousal had nearly ebbed, as Ciri’s eyes widened a little. Geralt went about setting his bedroll and furs up so he could settle in for the night as Ciri was lost in thought.

“I never thought of it that way.” Ciri stated, her shoulders hunching a little. “I think… no, I understand. Completely and utterly. I shared my heart with one person, truly, Mistle. It was coerced though, and I thought she was what I wanted. We spoke of a future together; of the things we would do. She protected me, or I thought she was protecting me, and I gave that piece of me to her. I don’t think I ever voiced it. Not even when we went to see their graves, but while I was mourning their lives, I was also mourning my own. So much of me was taken by them. So much of me was nearly lost. I only gained it back for a short time before it was ripped from me again.”

She paused, and Geralt settled down on his bedroll.

“It’s late.” Geralt stated, knowing by her scent that Ciri was distressed and didn’t want to talk about anything further. “Finish you stew Witcher. We have a long trek tomorrow.”

“Geralt I…” She looked up to Geralt with an expression he couldn’t place on her face. He felt out of sorts again. He wanted to kiss her, to make her feel safe and wanted. He wanted to hold her, and touch her and-

“We have time Ciri, we have time.” He interrupted his own thoughts, wincing at himself and how stupid he was swiftly becoming. “We have a whole winters worth. Do not make yourself talk on a subject you can address on a different day. You are tired, I am tired, and if we are both tired tomorrow, it will be unbearable. We may just decide to end our misery before it begins by slipping off a cliff.”

Ciri’s mood lightened some as she let off an exasperated sigh.

“You are right.” She chuckled softly, and finished her stew.

The night had been uneventful. But the next day would prove a challenge. The way to the keep was, even on good years, a battle in and of itself. With two years of neglect, even with the extra repairs that Vesemir had made before they had faced down the wild hunt, the road was slipshod and in places icy. Geralt thanked the gods that he had settled on oxen, and not on horses. Oxen, especially the ones from Kaedwen, were bred for mountain passes. They were slow, but they trod along the path, ignoring the cliffs edge, even as Roach, and Kelpie, who were both steady, would occasionally dance to the sheer wall in agitation.

Ciri let Geralt lead. Her job was made easy simply because the Oxen were trained to follow behind carts, and one another. But Geralt could sense her distress. When he would glance back at her to make sure she was faring well, he would notice that she pointedly kept her eyes forward, and would look a little green if she chanced a look over the edge.

They stopped for the night, in an alcove that had been carved out of the cliff face for just such purposes. They were on the killer now, and going any further tonight would be putting themselves in needless danger. They had passed beyond the tree line, and the air was thin. Even Geralt could feel the difference, and Ciri had been pointedly sucking on ginger most of the day to keep her stomach settled.

“I forgot how odd the air is up here.” She said, winded as she set up her sleeping roll. “I am going to have to work hard the next few weeks to get my body re-acclimated.”

“You are not the only one.” Geralt mumbled, taking out some cheese and summer sausage to cut up for their meal. “Even I feel it from time to time.”

Ciri smiled at that, and took a little of the cheese he had offered and some of the sausage.

They rested in front of the fire, and the alcove provided shelter form the worst of the wind. Geralt was enjoying not being on the cart, and finally getting full after the days long travel. After he ate, he saw to the horses, both of which were also winded. He gave them a good batch of oats covered in molasses, and they ate greedily, and drank from buckets he had warmed with Igni.

He settled in with a book he had brought along, and watched as Ciri organized some of her things. Geralt had just truly zoned into the book when Ciri’s voice cut through him.

“Geralt, I want to ask something, and I would like it if you would answer honestly.”

Oh, that was never good. Geralt set down his book, rabbit earing his place with a small bend to the page.

“I will try?” He looked at her curiously, as she began to fidget. 

“You never told me what the wish you made to tie you and Yennefer together was.” She was looking at him, nervously biting her lip. When Geralt didn’t move to speak right away, she continued.

“You and her, you were like oil over water. You would separate yourselves out, then the oil would catch fire, and you would be so passionate but then when the flames ate away at the oil, and you would move apart from one another. She seemed so cold when I met her at first. She was jealous of me. Of the fact that I had spent time with you.”

“My wish was for her to be able to have a child.” Geralt sighed softly. “The Djinn took it, and knew Yennefer’s atrophied womb would never be able to bare one, and instead, it put a series of events in motion that would land you in my care. To keep its magic intact, it had to bind us together in a false love, so that when you came, when at last I pulled my head out of my arse and collected you, she would be there, and she would get to be the mother she always wanted to be. I was pleased to have a lover, but Yennefer, she didn’t want it, not at first.”

“She said it made her feel tied down, like nothing she did when it came to you was her own decision.” Ciri stated, and Geralt nodded softly.

“We wounded each other. Deeply, and often times without remorse, or apology.” Geralt agreed as Ciri’s brows furrowed. “I wanted love, true love. An emotion I had never felt before. I could feel it, this ghost of what love was supposed to be taunting me just beyond my reach. I thought, if I put effort into it, I would be able to feel true love for her. I wanted a partner. Someone to confide in, someone who would see me for who I was, and not just for what I could bring them. Yennefer, she wanted nothing like that. She wanted power. She wanted love with conditions on her terms alone. I thought at first that giving your paramour everything they wished was the point of love. So, I tried. I tried, and when I inevitably failed, she would spin away from me, or I would spin away from her.”

“She wanted a child.” Ciri argued.

“She wanted a child, yes, but she didn’t really want a child.” Geralt shook his head sadly. “She wanted the idea of a child. She wanted the feeling of carrying life in her womb. She wanted to feel that thing that so many women around her seemed to have, a feeling of creation, of making something from herself that could be her legacy. Something that would love her to her exacting specifications. The Djinn saw that particular illusion ruined, when I deposited you at Nenneke’s temple, and gave her the letter which brought you two together.”

“I never wanted to be left behind.” Ciri sighed miserably. “I understand why you did it. I understand the stress of the spell Triss had you under. It made contacting Yennefer at the keep, when Triss was not sufficient, impossible. I understand why you had to run from me. You had to run from me to keep me safe from Triss and the others. You put me in the safest place you could, and once Triss’ spell broke, you contacted Yennefer.”

“I am glad you understand.” Geralt nodded an old pain easing in his chest. “Triss was jealous of you, fiercely so. And my brothers, Kriev bless them, tried to keep her away from me as much as they could.”

“She called me little sister to make her look like the much more appealing older sister.” Ciri snorted bitterly. “She infantilized me. She made me seem more ignorant than I was.”

“She did, but she also provided you with a safe haven where you could be controlled if necessary, by the priestesses.” Geralt spoke. “But it also provided Yennefer with some much-needed counseling and support she would have never sought otherwise.”

“What do you mean?” Ciri asked, her brows furrowed as she took a nibble of the sausage.

“Ciri, Yennefer had not had the support of a mother figure in her life for many, many years. She had Tissia, until she could no longer be trusted. Tissia was but a puppet and a mouthpiece for the brotherhood. Yennefer’s own mother beat her and sent her away. The woman sold Yennefer for a few coppers. Yennefer desperately needed someone who would put her life in perspective, someone who was not afraid of her, but also someone who she could confide in that wouldn’t break her confidence.”

“Nenneke?” Ciri asked, her eyes widening.

“You spent nearly a year at the monastery under their tutelage.” Geralt agreed with a small nod. “I remember the letters you sent me, nearly line for line. Yennefer hated you as much as you hated her in the beginning. It was only Nenneke’s intervention which allowed you both to bridge that gap and become what you needed to be for one another. You were calling her Mama by the time you left to meet me in Gors Velen. You both needed each other so much. You both needed Nenneke. She counseled her Ciri. Made her understand what being a parent truly was. It allowed Yennefer a chance to understand herself better, and to shed the yolk of the ideal she held for so long. By the end of your stay, she no longer wanted a perfect child of her own womb, who would bend to her every whim.”

“She is my mama even more then my own was.” Ciri nodded to herself her expression becoming fond. “She was so strong, and I admired her so much. I was jealous of her, her power, and how seemingly easy it came to her. It’s only after we had separated and I was on my own, that I realized how hard she had to fight for every inch of what she had. It’s made me respect her. It made me want to keep calling her Mama. I knew in an instant I could go to her and she would hold me and protect me with her own life. But that still leaves more questions. Why didn’t it work between you? She said she still loved you when you broke the Djinn’s curse, but for you, something went wrong.”

“I loved her,” Geralt stated, “But I wanted to be free of her. For years I loved her and was wounded by her. My friends, my brothers, hell, even strangers could see what I had blinded myself to. She used me from the moment she met me to see her own ends through. The killing stroke for me was the moment I found out about Istredd. She never told you about that I am guessing?”

Ciri shook her head and Geralt chuckled ruefully.

“She had been sleeping with us both.” Geralt couldn’t hide the small hurt in his voice. “She admitted it frankly to me. Told me outright she didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty. She shouted at me! Demanded that I talk to her! She rubbed it in my face that she was fond of him as she was with me. When I told her that I wouldn’t stand in her way, she got upset with me.”

“I didn’t know!” Ciri looked suddenly distraught.

“She twisted it in on herself. Comparing herself to the ice queen, and all sorts of nonsense.” Geralt sighed ruefully. “When she finished her diatribe, and she came to the question she had actually wanted to ask me, the one that would decide for her if I would be yet another discarded man in her wake, I stood up to her. I didn’t tell her I loved her, even though I genuinely wanted to. I wanted to beg, to plead, and to grovel, but I was angry, Ciri. Angry and hurt on a level which I had rarely felt. But I didn’t break.”

Ciri’s eyes were full of sadness as he spoke.

“She told us the same things, how much she cared for us, how much she wanted to be with us. It was eye-opening. I honestly thought that if I killed Istredd that she would love me, and only me. He thought the same. But in the end, we met each other as men. We had been fooled. Both of us hated each other for the same reason. Both of us had been had. Yennefer wanted the world. She wanted love she could bend and break at her whim. But the difference between us was, Istredd could and would leave, and would not be leashed to her. After she wounded me, I couldn’t help but go back like a dog wounded by its master all because of the curse of the Djinn. That, Ciri, is why I cannot love her. Not anymore. I tried to love her. I admitted to loving her, and got wounded more and more as time went on.”

“I thought that giving you to her would fulfill the wish and the connection between us would sever. But the Djinn was tricky, and it didn’t.” Geralt lamented. “She couldn’t love me the way I wanted, and I couldn’t love her the way she wanted. And when at last, she had learned what it ment to love, what it ment to be a lover, it was too late, for all that was left of me was a dog without teeth, who had finally after years of torment been released from his collar. I never want that again. I never want to play second fiddle, or third fiddle, or fourth. She put rules upon me which she did not follow in turn. And when I turned from her and sought comforts where I could, she would be angry with me. It was not healthy what we had. So, when she broke the wish, even though I still loved her, even though I wanted nothing more than to go back to her, and fall into her arms, I was free. So, I took the freedom at the cost of my twisted love.”

Silence reigned as the wind howled outside the overhang.

“Do you, regret it?” Ciri questioned softly.

“No.” Geralt sat up straighter. “She did me a service. Two years from her Yolk and I have finally buried the twisted love I had for her and allowed it to grow into something fruitful. We have a friendship now, something that honestly, we never truly had before. A love, but not a romantic one. A perfect love for us, even though it isn’t the love of fairytales.”

Ciri nodded, and swallowed thickly. For a few moments all that could be heard was the wind and the soft shuffling of hooves on the ground. Geralt ate the rest of his sausage and wrapped what he wouldn’t eat tonight for tomorrows breakfast.

“Now, I have been asked, and answered a very difficult question, and I have done so truthfully as I was asked.” Ciri’s eyes met his. “Turnabout, Swallow, is fair play, so I ask you something, and hope that you will answer truthfully.”

“Anything.” Her voice was a miserable whisper, nearly lost in the howling of the winds.

“Why do you call her Mama, but you don’t call me Da?”

Ciri’s eyes met his suddenly, and he could watch her expression as her face began to pale.

“A strange question.” Avoidance then. Geralt felt himself frowning.

“You are my child surprise.” Geralt baited her. “You are my ward, my student.”

“You have never called me your daughter.” Ciri shot back.

“And you have never called me Father, and I am asking why?” Geralt would not be deterred.

“You are not my father.” She stated stiffly, looking away from him, her cheeks puffed out. “You never were, nor could you be.”

“Why?” He didn’t put any inflection on it. He waited, watching as she swallowed thickly, and her hands moved to fists.

“You are Geralt.” She stated, her knuckles becoming white. “You are my destiny. You always have been, and you always will be something more to me.”

“As are you.” Geralt said softly, and her eyes looked to his, something akin to fear and hope burning in them. He wanted to go to her then, to gather her, and it was the second time in as many nights that the smell of her arousal hit his nose. Her expression turned to disbelief, and then it shut down, hurt crossing her features.

“You wouldn’t understand, you are but a witcher.” She mumbled under her breath, parroting the very thing she said to him before launching herself into chaos to defeat the white frost.

“I understand more then you know, Ciri.” He stated softly, trying to not let hurt race into his heart where it didn’t belong. He laid down pulling his furs over his shoulders. “Sleep, the road ahead is worse than today.”

She didn’t move to sleep, not for a long time. The wind hid her actions from his ears, but he could smell salt on the air. Misery snuck in as his bones began to ache and old injuries decided to make themselves known on the cold uneven ground. When at last she settled and drifted to sleep, he sighed deeply.

He knew what he was feeling now, and desperately wanted it to go away, so he wouldn’t do something foolish. He looked at her scarred face from across the fire. The tears were gone but left her eyes puffy and pink. He studied her for a long while wishing he could trace his thumb along her scar. Wishing to card his hands through her hair. Wishing to touch. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. She wasn’t his to claim even though the law of surprise put her in his care. She had been through so much, and he didn’t want to add to her woes with his ardor.

An ardor, that had been building and had been ignored by only himself.

Triss had been jealous of Ciri. Yennefer had been jealous of Ciri. Avalac’h had hated Geralt and only worked with him grudgingly. How many others had seen what he pointedly refused to see? Sleep claimed him eventually and it was fitful, restless, and he was haunted by green eyes and pale skin.

The morning came, and he was up later then Ciri. Only the smell of the summer sausage she was eating brought him about, and he looked about the camp and realized that everything that he hadn’t been directly laying on had been packed.

“Long day, figured you could use the rest.” She stated curtly, a new distinct energy around her putting Geralt’s teeth on edge. She tossed him some hardtack and he ate it, and the rest of his sausage, as he had planned. He didn’t bother asking her what was wrong. He knew full well she was wrestling with herself about a great many things. It would do him no good to have her ire aimed at him and having her distracted. The path ahead was dangerous after all.

It had gotten cold in the night, and both of them had put on their coats made of Karakul wool, and fur lined hats, and gloves, so they could see the next part of the journey through without freezing. He warned her of the path ahead, and told her to keep her hand on the wagons break at all times. They went through and checked said wagons and made sure everything was in working order. They made double sure the breaks were free of debris and ice. She had never seen a wagon driven through the pass and she was already shivering despite the warm clothing. Geralt could smell fear and determination in her scent and thought both were prudent for this venture.

It took them three hours to reach the high pass, the divide from which snow melt would run in one direction or the other. It was icy, and the wind burned their skin red as they crested the pass and looked on to the valley below. They could not see the keep, for it was deep within the winding snake that the river carved, but Geralt felt himself feel buoyed. They had made it up. Now came the truly dangerous part. Getting back down.

They stopped at the summit for a few minutes, to recheck the breaks, and make sure their horses and the oxen were fit to continue. The air here was even thinner, and the wind seemed to steal their breath from them. Ciri looked green around the gills and even Geralt felt the strange offsetting nausea that high altitudes tended to wreak. Going down would be worse than going up. The path along this side rarely saw sunlight, as it faced north. The ice and snow were thick here and often hid problems.

They didn’t stop until night had fell, and they were once again below the tree line.

They were both exhausted and still cold from their travels. Geralt made stew again, seasoning it with plenty of salt, and he broke open a bottle of wine to share between them. The conversation between them had moved to safer topics, neither wanting a rehash of the previous night’s heavy talk. Instead, once fed, and allowing the stew to thicken for the morning, they spoke of rare monsters. Their conversation carried on till both of them nearly fell into the fire from exhaustion.

The next morning saw them both up before dawn broke, and both them, and the animals seemed to sense that today would be the day. The stew was thick and delicious, and it served to soften the hardtack and make it far more palatable. Both ate their fill, completed their morning ablations, and they were on the road as the sun began to peak over the mountain tops.

Geralt always felt awe coming back to the valley after a time away. Be it a year, or several. It was beautiful. The trees had long lost their leaves, and it created a stark beauty where he could see patches of ice and snow that had stuck in the shadows. Ciri too was awed. It was warmer in the valley, and their coats were set aside quickly and replaced with moderately heavy wool tunics.

Seeing the keep eased a tension that Geralt hadn’t known he had been holding. Though it had been two years. As always, as they rounded the bend beyond goat mountain, the keep had come into view, and it was still beautiful, and looking not much worse for were. Every time he returned to the keep; he had a feeling that something else would have fallen. But time had seemed to stand still for the keep in his absence.

They arrived at the gap separating the path from the keep Geralt could almost hear the ghosts shouting their welcome. He clamored over the wall to let down the bridge and lead the animals to be freed from their burdens. Two years away had left the wood rotting in places, and the yard overgrown with weeds which tried to tangle around their feet. But even the interior, though still showing damage from their fight with the hunt, seemed to be steady and eternal.

The mood was somber as they began to unpack and bring things into the keep. Geralt could already see immediate repairs that would need to be made to keep them safe in the for the winter, but most of the repairs they had done in the year before the wild hunt came, had held. It was a testament to Vesemir’s harping. The old man had known what he was talking about.

“So, where should I sleep?” Ciri asked, as Geralt went to place his items in his tower room. “I could go to my old room…”

“No,” Geralt frowned. “You can stay in the room below mine. We have to clear the flue for the vents and chimneys before we can use the main hall, so for now, we will use the two rooms in the tower.”

Ciri nodded softly.

“What is the plan for tonight then?”

Geralt sighed and rubbed at his eyes. Being at the keep ment safety for him, and every time he arrived, he instantly wanted to go straight to bed. However, one solid sniff of himself made him wince.

“Bags up. Need to see if the tubs are good, then baths.” Geralt winced. “We smell foul, I didn’t bother bathing at the whore house.”

Ciri winced and nodded softly.

“After, food. We can cook in my hearth.” Geralt stated. “And honestly Ciri, for the first time you are going to see me do something I never do.”

Ciri’s eyebrows rose up.

“I am sleeping.” Geralt said almost irritated with himself with how exhausted he felt. “We have much to do, but I am not going to move on it until I am damned good and ready. You know how to cook, and you can do signs, so if you want a bath you can have it.”

“And the hot springs?” She asked excitement reaching her eyes.

“Off limits until I can make sure the venting is working and going in won’t kill us both.” Geralt grumbled, and Ciri pouted, making him feel irritated. “This isn’t a game, you asked to come here to learn. Well, first lesson. The first few days is resting. You shit, you piss, you read books near the fire, you eat, and you sleep. When you recover from the mountain, and you will be sore come the morning, training and chores begin. If you are going to train, the first thing we are going to need to do is rebuild the scaffold, which has fallen.”

Ciri sighed.

“Rest then?” She asked. He nodded.

The next day, Ciri was in agony. Her months blood had begun. She may have been sterilized, but it didn’t stop her body from realizing that she had no biological need for it. Between that, and the soreness from tensing every few seconds when the road became perilous, the path had taken its toll. Geralt and her spent most of their time in his bedroom, with him ferrying her warm stones in a pillowcase that would ease the cramps, and her sipping at tea with willows bark. Two days later, both had made good on their promise to rest. Geralt slept most of the time, only waking to make sure Ciri was ok, and to eat. Rain had come and gone by the time he was back up again, and felt like taking on the tasks of the keep.

He set Ciri off on the killer, having her take note of where the path had become impassible, or where things needed improving. He ordered her to make new paths where obstacles that she couldn’t remove fell, and to see if she remembered it. Ciri hadn’t expected to launch straight into training, but Geralt didn’t have time nor the patience at the moment to worry about her discomfort with the situation. When she returned in the afternoon, he had not been idle either. He had logged several trees from around the keep, and had begun to mill the timber and start setting aside beams that could be used to rebuild the scaffold. After a quick lunch, they both saw to the animals, and then went back to the lumber.

Ciri helped him gather fallen nails, which were still useful, and he set her to checking out the fields below the keep where the wild roots that would become their winter food were grown. She returned with a basket full of them, and he sent her to the kitchen, as he began to construct the scaffold so they could run the walls when the winter made the killer earn its moniker.

When the sun went down, Geralt went inside the keep, and was surprised to see Ciri, covered head to foot in soot, and scrubbing out the chimney. A pile of ash was left to the side, and Geralt grinned to himself as Ciri ferried water to her room to clean up and wash the soot out of her hair.

He took over making dinner, using the last of their dried meat, and starting the pot which would be boiling until the spring came. When Ciri came down clean, and they had eaten, he set her to inventory the main hall, and he began to clear the kitchens of old food which had hardened or rotted. In his meanderings he found several cheese wheels which had kept. In the end, he had set Ciri’s new roots in the root cellar, cleaned the pantry, found herbs and spices and garlic that were still useable, and many more things. He was pleased that the keep hadn’t completely gone downhill in their absence.

After dinner, he and Ciri went to the library, where Geralt picked out a mountain of tomes to bring to their rooms, and set Ciri to studying them, while he took a bath.

They both fell asleep in exhaustion, and both were up again at dawn to begin again.

The hard work of prepping the keep for winter had kept them busy for nearly two weeks. And for nearly two weeks, the worst they had to deal with is cold at night, and rain for a single day. He set aside time each day to exercise, and spar with Ciri, but the keep needed quite a bit of care. Ciri, had kept herself busy too. She would help Geralt, but most of her time was spent studying, and rebuilding the pendulum and the various other training implements she would need to hone herself further.

Geralt felt good, it was good to be distracted, it was good to not have his thoughts wandering to Ciri, and their heavy talks on the way to Kaer Morhen. But he also knew, that soon, it would snow, and they would have to bunker down. The talks that were coming were unavoidable.

The snow started to come in the afternoon of the third week. Late, which was never a good sign. Ciri came in from the fields, which she had been tending and trying to make order of. She winced when she moved, and Geralt could smell blood from her, but she was wearing her jacket, and she wasn’t complaining so he left it alone. Geralt, having smelled snow on the air, took one of the oxen, and dispatched it. The air had only been getting slightly above freezing, and he had rebuilt the cold shed, so now was the time to store the meat for future smoking, when he got the smokehouse rebuilt. When he was done, and he had taken the choice cuts into the keep to make a meal worthy of celebrating the snow, Ciri caught his arm.

“I would like to go see him.”

The snow was still fine and light, and was not quite sticking. Geralt nodded in agreement. They gathered their things, and began the hike to the grave of Geralt’s mentor.

The snow provided a lovely backdrop to the view, and the cold seemed appropriate. But a grave was just a grave. Vesemir’s body hadn’t been buried. Geralt looked to the area where they built the pyre. There were thousands of witchers who had come to rest on that spot. It had been where they had burned the bodies from the pogrom. He looked to Ciri who had taken on a meditative pose in front of Vesemir’s headstone, and he looked away.

Vesemir was a man of strange contradictions. He was stoic, but funny, wise, but a little shit, and he was absolutely the most steadfast of them. Or at least he seemed to be. He was also scared to move in the outside world. Only traveling with Geralt to find Yennefer, because Geralt was unwell mentally and he needed to see his son safely into the arms of his lover of yore. Geralt smiled to himself as he remembered Vesemir’s grumbling on their way down the mountain, and how he looked around at the world which had changed so much since he had last been on the path.

It had been upsetting that he had died, facing one of his greatest fears and loosing. He feared the keep getting attacked, and it had been attacked a few years previous, and by mages no less. Geralt wished the old man could have doddered around till he had mis-stepped on an icy cliff and fallen to his death quickly, or that he got killed by a draconid, or anything other than what had happened. His death had been the trigger which had allowed Ciri to open her powers back up, but it was of little comfort.

Geralt missed him.

His throat constricted, and he felt the burn begin in his eyes.

He missed him. He wanted to ask his advice! He wanted to try to understand what was happening to him! He wanted to understand more about the caste than what he already did, and to ask all the stupid questions he had buried thinking that Witcher’s didn’t need to know the answers to them. He wanted to listen to Vesemir’s voice as he sat by the fire, and sang, something he did often to fill the lonely keep.

He wanted to taste his food again, and listen to him harp about how his footwork was shoddy.

He felt the tears come softly.

When they had burned Vesemir’ body, he stood before strangers, people who viewed the witchers a certain way. He couldn’t break in front of them. Then there had been Avalac’h. The elf, with Vesemir’s body barely warmed by the pyre, didn’t allow them a single moment to grieve their fallen mentor. Ciri had lashed out because of it. Ciri had gone to face the white frost thinking she wouldn’t have come out of it.

He looked up and his vision, watery and distorted, met Ciri’s eyes. She was suddenly in his arms.

She howled, and Geralt gripped her tightly. He could feel her magic swirling around them as she screamed and Geralt screamed with her. His own voice twisting around hers as they allowed the pain which they had held for too long to escape. Pain for the loss of their mentor, pain for the loss of the people they had cared for. They howled as the snow began to thicken, the last lament of the wolves of Kaer Morhen.

Geralt wasn’t sure how much later it was, when he felt Ciri shift against him, and she began to pull away. The smell of blood still clung to her, and she winced as she did. It had grown dark, and the snow had begun to pile around their feet.

“Thank you, Geralt.” She spoke softly, trying to wipe the evidence of her sorrow from her face and nose.

“Thank you, Ciri, for letting me grieve.” Geralt’s voice was husky and soft. He reached for her then, and ran his thumb across her scar like he had longed to do for so long. She sighed into the motion, leaning into the contact. She was looking at him sadly, but expectantly. He felt her hands tighten around him, and he wanted to do anything and everything for her in that moment.

He brought their heads together softly, his forehead resting against hers, and he breathed in her scent. The wolf’s welcome.

He felt her breath hitch again, and he stroked her cheek softly.

“I will never let you go, Geralt.” Her breath puffed against him. “You are my destiny.”

Geralt surged forward, enveloping her in his arms. He did it to avoid doing something rash, and stupid. But she too mimicked the motion, and sighed against him, her hand coming up and stroking his hair, which was damp from the snow.

She pulled away first, and smiled, watery, her face flushed and her eyes still puffy and red.

“I am hungry, and Vesemir would box our ears for sitting up here catching hypothermia for his sake.”

Geralt chuckled at that, and patted her on the shoulder which caused her to wince a little.

“Let’s go get food then.”

Geralt cooked as Ciri washed up. He seasoned the steaks to perfection, and he made mashed potatoes and a thick gravy from the stewpot which was boiling away merrily. When Ciri came down to eat, the meal tasted divine, and they were both silent while they contemplated their own thoughts.

After the meal, Ciri went to the library, and Geralt took his turn in the bath. He let himself soak for a long while, before he scrubbed his skin pink, and set about combing his hair. When dancing torchlight heralded Ciri’s return, he was in bed, an oil lamp beside him, and a book about Fae in his hands.

“Geralt?”

Her voice was somewhat pained, and his brows furrowed in concern as she pushed the door to his room open. He set down the book as she approached.

“Hey…” His eyes went wide as she approached. She was wearing a fur; it was draped around her shoulders. She clutched at the front of it, and seemed to hesitate.

“What’s going on” He sat up in the bed, kicking the blankets off him.

“It seems I have a cut, between my shoulder blades.” Ciri stated, and though her voice was genuine, her scent was nervous. “I thought I had it well enough, but it must be deeper than I thought. It soaked through my shirt, I split it trying to reach for something in the library. Probably should have put stiches in it but…”

“Come on.” Geralt patted the bed, and then got up to get his kit. “Thought I smelled blood, chalked it up to a small cut. How did you get it?”

Ciri sighed as she sat miserably.

“Honestly, it’s stupid.” She hissed rolling her shoulder. “I was prepping the gauntlet, making sure the blades were in the correct place. Forgot I placed my tools right where I stepped. I fumbled over them, and hit the sconce, and it tore my back.”

Geralt chuckled, and Ciri cast him an irritated look.

“You are not the first one to be felled by forgotten tools.” Geralt smirked, grabbing his bottle of alcohol and his stitching thread. “However, you waited, and I may not be able to stitch it.”

“Well it’s not like I could see it.” She huffed petulantly.

Geralt motioned for her to turn around, and she sighed. He sat behind her on the bed, and she lowered the fur. The blood was sluggishly running out of a jagged and irritated looking cut. He frowned as he looked at her skin, and could see where her bindings had dug into her back.

“looks rough…” He stated, and grabbed a clean rag. “You know the drill. It’s going to sting.”

“Yeah I…. oh, by the sun.” Ciri hissed and flinched as Geralt began to clean the ragged irritated cut. He frowned as he cleared it from the scab and looked at the still open and bleeding wound.

“Ciri, this is bad.” He mumbled, reaching for the tincture of swallow. “You’re liable to get an infection if one hasn’t already started. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Ciri shuddered a thin sheen of sweat on her shoulders as he worked.

“I want you to be proud of me.” Her voice was quiet. “I didn’t realize it was as bad as all that, and you know, witchers are independent.”

“Even I would have sought out a healer for something like this.” Geralt scolded, and doused the wound with swallow. Ciri yelped as the wound sizzled a bit, and then he handed her the bottle for her to finish off the rest.

“Yeah well…” She winced at the taste. “Forgive me for the hubris.”

Geralt shook his head and chuckled a bit. It did need to be stitched, and she had indeed ripped it right back open. He began to lay the stitches, one by one fully concentrated on his task.

“So, all this learning, the want to return here, the training, are you really so eager to set off on your own?” Geralt asked, and Ciri stiffened slightly under his touch. “I know I am not a pretty thing to look at, and my conversation skills are abysmal even on my best days.”

“Oh, come off it, Geralt. You cut a roguish figure, and you are quite charming when you wax poetic about traipsing around in muck to fight Zugels.” She turned to him and smiled. “Stop playing the depressing mutant, who is fishing for compliments.”

Geralt chuckled, as he forcibly turned her so her back was facing him once more.

“So that’s a yes?” He asked. And she stiffened again. Her scent soured a little with fear.

“Do you want me to go so badly?”

Geralt’s hands stopped moving, and he had to force himself to swallow. The click of it echoed through the room louder than any of the words they had spoken.

“Two years, is too short a time to make judgements like that.” Geralt stated, resuming his stitching.

“I am not leaving you, Geralt.” She snapped, and he felt himself relax. They sat in silence as he worked, and cleaned her back of the blood.

When he was done, he placed a poultice on it, and wrapped it with a honeyed bandage. He traced it with his fingertips, and he saw the goosebumps rise up on her flesh. His mind took that moment to echo some of the things he had said on path home.

When she leaned into his touch, a fire started deep and warm in his belly.

“This place,” Ciri’s voice cut through the silence, “Is the only place I have ever felt truly safe.”

Geralt understood that to his core. Kaer Morhen was his home. His only home. It was the place he dreamed of coming back to after a harsh season. The second your boots hit the threshold, it didn’t matter what had happened on the path throughout the year, or who you were. Here, he could be himself. Just be Geralt. He hummed an agreement, his fingers tracing along her shoulder now.

“I owe you an answer.” Ciri cut through his thoughts, her muscles tensing once again as she pulled from his touch a little.

“An answer?” Geralt felt confusion rocket into him.

“You asked me why I called you Geralt, and not Da, and I evaded your answer.” She said her fingers working into the fur she was holding at her chest.

“You don’t have to give me an answer, I don’t expect it.” He hesitated; the snake that had coiled in his gut had begun to squeeze.

“To be a witcher, is to be brave, Vesemir told me that.” Ciri stated quietly. “And I am feeling brave, or stupid, not sure which. Don’t interrupt me, and then you can have your say.”

Geralt squeezed her shoulder, and she sighed.

“When I was a girl, a little one, one who’s primary purpose was to harass my grandmamma at every chance I was able, I began to have dreams.” Ciri stated her eyes growing distant as she looking into the heath in the center of Geralt’s rooms. “These dreams always featured the same thing. A man tall, and strange, with white hair, and cat’s eyes. He would come to me, while my grandmamma slept, and he would pick me up, tell me I was going home, and then take me to a castle in the sky. When I was young, these dreams were innocent, I would go to the castle in the sky, and he would be there, watching over me. He didn’t give me dresses or dolls. He gave me Armor, and a sword and I would spend hours in my dreams, sparring with him, and laughing as he played with me, tickled me, and made me feel wanted.”

Geralt took a breath in as Ciri hunched forward against her emotions.

“Two days before I was set to travel to Verden, I caught one of the servants, laying with one of my Grand mama’s ladies in waiting.” Ciri stated the memory causing her to smile, and her cheeks to pinken. “What he was doing with that women, was so strange, and unusual that I couldn’t help but watch. I had only ever seen a man nude in paintings, and I had never seen what a prick was used for. But I watched, as he whispered sweet nothings into this woman’s ear, and he speared her to her core. I thought she was maybe in pain, but she kept talking about how good it felt, how wonderful he made her feel. I went into my room that night, and for the first time, I explored myself. I touched myself. Something happened then, and my magic broke loose, only a small amount, but it happened, and my grandmamma, got angry. She insisted that I was to do nothing of the sort, and to wait, and if I wanted to be wed that badly, I would go see Kistren in a few days and she would draw up the contract.”

“That night, angry that she was sending me away, I fell asleep, and I dreamed. It is a dream I remember to this day.” She stated, shaking slightly. “The man in my dreams, who up till that point just took me, and protected me, and played with me, took me into his arms. In my dream this time I was a woman, and he kissed me, and held me, and he mounted me like the servant. I asked him why he was doing it, and what had changed, and he said, “It is always what I was ment to do, I am your destiny, and you are mine.”

“Ciri…” Geralt felt stunned, and his gut began to twist in on itself.

“I knew I had to get away from them then. Escape from my guard, and I would find the man who haunted my dreams in the woods.” Ciri shook her head, and Geralt could smell the salt of tears. “And you did, you found me. Just like in my dreams you rescued me, and you held me, and you scolded me. But it was wrong! It was supposed to be more!”

“I told the dryads when they had me cornered that you were my destiny, and Eithné didn’t believe me.” Ciri hissed pulling away from Geralt. “I knew the stories; my grandmamma would send girls to the dryad forest in exchange for lumber. But there was a story there too. One who drinks the waters of Brokilon will become a dryad unless they are destined for another. They thought they had me. The only way to save a man from the waters is sex. It was how they made little dryads after all. What would a sheltered princess know of it? They made you drink it thinking I wouldn’t know what to do. They were going to make me watch as the waters struck you down, made you drown in a fever even witchers cannot shake.”

“Ciri…”

“Two summers before this, my grandmamma got angry, because I had refused to ride a horse like a lady, and grandpa Eist allowed me to ride my horse normally.” Ciri looked at him then, turning her body. “There was no pain for me, but the Dryads they laughed. They laughed and laughed taunting me, telling me “only you can save him.” I showed them. I showed them all. Do you remember?”

“I remember pain.” Geralt hissed. “I remember pain, and taunting, and seeing Yennefer, then seeing you. I remember your hands, and how cold they felt on my skin, and how…Fire….”

“Yes, fire.” Ciri turned away from him again. “You woke up on the side of the road with me because I burned the hut down. I burned it all, because they were trying to hurt you, and hurt me. You weren’t aware of anything. It wasn’t the dryads that drug you to the road. You ran, with me. You picked me up, darting through the flames, and you ran until the magic of Brokilon no longer held sway, and you protected me.”

_Flames, burning pleasure. A voice, pleading. Ciri, she was flushed, but she had saved them. The dryads were screaming, panicking as the forest screamed with them. He could hear it, and saw it as the woods opened up. “Take her, and protect her… take her and be free.”_

“Yennefer knew, immediately what had happened, and why my powers were suddenly out of my control, why they had been unlocked.” Ciri said bitterly. “After all, a girl doesn’t unlock her magical ability until she has joined with another, willingly, or unwillingly. You knew this. You knew this because of my Mama, and my Papa. But no matter how much I begged, you always moved away from me! Each time you left me, my magic became harder and harder to control.”

She looked up at him then, her eyes fierce and determined.

“I do not call you Da, or Papa, or father, because you are not.” She said, turning to him, causing him to shift back. “You have been the one who has haunted my dreams. You are the reason I only take women to my bed. You are the reason the elf king failed to get an erection and impregnate me, because he knew. He knew it from the waters that I had been claimed by another. He knew it wasn’t his destiny, though they forced him to try. I call you Geralt, because we are not ment to be father and daughter, and you know this! You know this because you call me Ciri, and not Daughter as Yennefer has. You were never ment to be my father. My teacher? My protector? Yes, but my father…”

The furs fell, and the feeling inside Geralt grew, burning across his skin. She maneuvered carefully, and Geralt felt choked on the air which was now filled with magic. Her eyes were glowing, and his mouth went dry.

“Tell me, Geralt.” Her eyes were boring into his. “Tell me the truth of it. Do not lie, I can sense a lie. How long were you going to wait?”

Geralt moved forward. His vision was clear for the first time in ages. He leaned into her neck, and pulled her scent through his nose, sneering as he took it in for the first time, without ignoring it. She needed him. He made a pained noise in his throat which turned into a growl.

“I would have waited till the end of time,” He heard her breath hitch as he lifted his gaze. “I would have waited till the end of time, because no one, not even me, not even someone who destiny says you are bound to, has any right to make you do ANYTHING you don’t want to do.”

The feel of a hand cupping him through his braies, caused him to groan, and Ciri looked at him with a fire in her eyes he had never seen aimed at him before.

“You were always so noble, Geralt,” She purred, rubbing his stiffening cock through his braies.

“And you always were a little she devil…” Geralt groaned as she nuzzled his cheek, and then hovered, her lips nearly touching his.

“You love that about me…” Her breath was hot against his mouth, her scent was flooding him.

He couldn’t bare it any longer. He darted his tongue out to taste her lips, and felt her smile. Her mouth opened and their tongues touched, as they hovered just out of each other’s reach, teasing, and tasting. Instinct, pure, raw, and unbridled swelled upon Geralt, as he moved forward, claiming her mouth in a bruising kiss, that frankly he would have to be embarrassed about later. It was all teeth and tongue, and it was sloppy, wet, and utterly clumsy.

They pulled apart only long enough for Geralt to remove his tunic. Then he was on her again, lifting her, careful of her wound, and licking along her neck and collarbone.

“I have waited so long for this…” She shivered against him, and pulled the leather tie from her hair letting it free. “I know you long for gentleness, and there will be a time for that. But I have waited for so long…”

Her scent thickened as her hair went down, and its soft floral scent made Geralt sneer yet again as he took the scent into the deepest part of his nose. She arched up on her knees, straddling him, and he mouthed along the swell of her breast. She keened and shivered as he pulled a nipple into his mouth, and sucked and nibbled it till it stood pink and erect against her pale skin. She tasted of sweat, stress, soap, and arousal. The salty taste of it flooded his every pore, and she tugged on his hair and dove in to kiss him once again.

The kiss this time was more coordinated, and far more passionate. Her fingers tailed idly down his stomach, and he groaned into her mouth when she found his cock. Her other fingers meanwhile had wandered further up. They traced along his neck, caressing, and he hummed in approval. They didn’t stop their journey. When they cupped his ear and ran along the shell it was his turn to whine. The high noise which he would deny he had ever made, had her chucking softly into the kiss.

“Ciri…” Geralt panted, his heart beating double time in his chest. He looked into her eyes as they pulled away, and watched in fascination as they dilated, and a blush began to map its way across the skin of her cheeks and ears.

“Geralt, let go.” She demands, and Geralt takes it literally. Ciri looks surprised, and a small laugh filters its way out of her.

“I ment, fuck me Geralt.” She laughed running her fingers through his hair.

“Oh. I thought-” Geralt sighs. “I am no good at this…”

“Lay me down, Geralt,” She demands, and her brows furrow. “Softly, my back is sore.”

Geralt nods shakily and takes her, placing her in the middle of the bed on the furs. She looks at him expectantly, and Geralt nods to himself, untying his braies, and only managing to slip one leg out before Ciri has grabbed his amulet and has brought him down on top of her.

“Touch me….” She demands, and Geralt begins to pepper her neck and chest with kisses.

He marvels as she arches into his touch. His fingers trace along the scars marring her skin, marking her for what she is, a witcher. He marvels at her muscles, which stand out in sharp relief in the firelight. He too softly brushes the bruises which are beginning to form, and those that are healing from the training she had begun to undertake. He studies her, as his hands, which seem large on her narrow waist, travel down and down, until they reach the thick patch of ashen hair between her legs.

He runs his fingers across her lips, softly, and she gasps, moving her hips and demanding more from him. He crawled down her body, kissing and nipping as he goes, reveling in the soft sounds he is pulling from her. When at last, he finds himself seated between her thighs, Ciri’s scent floods him. His cock pulses weakly and begins to dribble a lament that it is not yet being used for its intended purpose. She smells like a woman ought to smell, life, blood, that strange musky saltiness that makes him weak in the knees. His mouth is watering as he licks out, tasting that which he craves the most. Ciri’s breath punches out of her as he flattens his tongue against her, and licks at her.

“Oh shit!” She cries out, and Geralt grins as he begins to move his face against her. He licks into her as he noses at her clit, tasting her, smelling her, marking his beard with her scent so he can carry her scent with him. He then lifts off, breathing softly against her. She groans in impatience, and when she can stand it no longer her hands come down on his head, directing him to where she wants him most. Her thighs envelop his head, and the heat of them against his ears makes him thrust weakly into nothing, his cock bobbing with the lack of friction. He grips onto her thighs as she writhes against him, and the song she sings is a beautiful thing as he tastes and sucks at her clit.

He is lost in the sensation, his mind silencing as she moves him, and moves against him. Her wetness gets all the sweater as he works his mouth against her, trying to taste every last drop of it.

She snarls her hands pulling his hair taught and tight. The pain is the prelude to the very thing he had been working towards. Fluid bursts forth from her center, sweet, and elven. She arches and her muscles lock him in place as he works her through it, lapping at the slick like a man dying of thirst. Geralt groans low in his throat as his own balls tighten. He is panting in earnest when she finally releases him.

She looks beautiful like this, her legs trembling and her fingers moving to touch the place he had left behind. He growls low in his throat, as he watches her smear what he couldn’t catch around her quim. She looks to him, and her legs spread softly, an invitation.

“Please Geralt, more…” His name falls off his lips, and he never wants to hear it spoken by another.

The begging tone, the sight of a finger pressing into her slick entrance. It wakes the beast Geralt proclaims not to be, and he mounts her. Her body is ready, and he guides himself to her, thrusting against her lips to make his cock slick and ease the way. She gasps against him, and grabs at his arm.

“Easy…” He growls low in his throat.

“I have waited so long!” She sobs, her blunted nails digging into his skin.

For a moment all is silent, and Geralt sucks in a breath as he pushes forward, the head of his prick breaching her. The wail of delight could be taken for pain if the wane smile across her lips had faltered. He is growling low now, shifting himself as he trusts to hold her down as she moves to buck against him. Her legs encircle his back, her heel guiding him to the rhythm she wants. It is not enough, and her nails dig into his arm as she tries to encourage him.

“Please!” She begs, and all the control that Geralt had up until that moment, breaks.

The pleasure that he has denied himself for so long lances through him, tightening the muscles of his chest and sending shivers of sensation down his spine. She is so slick, so wet, and so very hot against him. He finds himself shivering in sensation as he thrusts into her with powerful purposeful movements. She meets his every thrust, her hips swaying as she moves with him, encouraging him. The smell of her on his beard, the taste of her in his mouth, and the feel of her body squeezing against his cock makes howl in animalistic need. Pleasure builds, but this is as much about her as it is about him. He feels her tightening, a vice against his cock which tries to push him out, as he spears back in. Her fingers move, and dance against him, feeling the junction in which, their bodies are conjoined. He roars again, and she looks at him, her eyes hazy and filled with lust.

His name becomes a mantra on her lips, as he leans down, biting at her neck, and pushing her forward into the bliss that awaits them both. He is distracted by the feeling of her against him. Of the heat rising between them, of the sweat and smell of sex which creates a claiming miasma on them both. He is lost in the idea of claiming the one good thing destiny has given him, the one thing he actually wanted more than anything else. If he feels his amulet vibrating between their chests, he makes no indication, as bends down and bites at her neck with sharpened teeth.

He doesn’t see nor feel the magic which begins to pulse, sending books flying, snuffing the candles, and making the flame in the hearth flare with power. He only feels her, as she screams, against him, her nails digging furrows into his skin that will heal in moments. His rhythm stutters and she howls, her body bowing, and he legs losing their hold. Pleasure floods him, as she screams, orgasm making her squeeze him. A hot flood of liquid flows around his cock, and the feeling of it, the scent, the pain, the pleasure, makes him thrust once, twice, and then he is blinded by rapture so fierce he knows nothing else.

He spills inside her as the magic pulses out, and races through the valley below. The whole valley springs to life and the snow billows till the air is nothing but white. He spills, his cock pulsing inside her, filling her till his thrusts drag it out, and he spills again. He howls against her as she gasps and falls limp. His vision whitens, and the sounds fall away, and in this peak, he finds himself lost.

Something ends, and something begins.

The magic swallows him, and bliss blends to darkness, as he collapses, and knows no more.

He awakes slowly. He is warm, covered, and he is clinging to a warm body, that is breathing softly beside him. He shifts, and buries his face into hair, which causes him to pause. He thinks for a moment he made a terrible mistake, but the body against him seems larger, taller. He expected curls, black. But when he opens his eyes, he finds his nose buried in ashen blond hair, with stress streaks of white. He only wants to panic for a single moment, before he remembers he is in Kaer Morhen, He is safe, and it is Ciri that lays beside him, not Yennefer.

His heart begins to slow again, and his body begins to relax. She is sleeping soundly beside him. He studies her in the dim of the pre-dawn light, and can’t help the grin that plasters itself across his face. She is a messy sleeper. Her hair is draped every which way, and her mouth is open, and drooling. The sight breaks the spell of her ethereal beauty, and it reminds him that she is a person, a living and breathing person, and that she is his. He smiles a bit, and leans down to scent her. She smells of him, she smells claimed. There is a single moment of pride, that he had claimed her, that he is who she had always wanted. The strange feeling which had been biting at him for years, finally let’s go of him, and he clutches her to his chest, reveling in what he can finally have. She only grunts, closing her mouth a little, and shifting so she can be closer to him. The feel of her body warm and relaxed against his, and the scent of her, calms him, and he falls back into a blissfully restful sleep.

“Geralt… Geralt?!” Hands are shaking his foot. _Wise,_ he thinks. He didn’t know he drifted back to sleep, but when he awakes this time, he sees Ciri’s panicked face. He is awake instantly, and sits up.

“What’s wrong.” He asks as she shushes him, and puts a finger to his lips.

“Something-someone is in the keep!” She hisses through clenched teeth.

He hears a laugh, and the clink of armor, and he feels his stomach drop out.

They dress quickly, and Geralt dons his swords. The fire in his hearth is but embers, and the chill air of valley is sneaking in through the open flue, small flakes of snow coming with it. He chances a glance out the window and it is frosted and covered in snow. It was a blizzard last night, possibly this morning. As they open the door the smell of something is cooking floods his nose, and the scent is so familiar it nearly makes him choke. Voices key up from below and he hears more laughter, and shouts. And… children?

“What idiot would bring children here in winter?” Ciri’s voice hisses in his ear. He frowns and wants to know the answer to that as well.

Ciri and he sneak down the stairs of the tower, and yet again he feels pride as he hears nothing from Ciri’s footfalls. They pause when a shadow and the dancing light of a torch momentarily blind him. He sees someone scurrying blow, and practically skipping down the steps to the old sleeping quarters, the labs, and, to the place of power. They wait until the torchlight dims, and the sound of a rusty door hinge squeaking lets them know that the stranger has gone out of view. He motions for Ciri to follow him, his ears cocked and primed for movement as he watches the dark stairwell for whoever darted below.

They wait in confusion for the conversation beyond the door to increase, and it does. The voices sound happy, sad? There are children laughing? Whoever is here must have moved in after they had left, but there hadn’t been any signs of anyone at the keep at all. Ciri squeezes his arm, and he pushes the door open a crack. His breath stills.

The slam of the door and it falling off its hinges creates a clatter that causes everyone in the room beyond to jump, and draw weapons, if they have them. The room falls silent, and Geralt’s heart is pounding in his chest so loudly it is all he can hear.

“Geralt!” Ciri shouts stumbling into the room. Her eyes grow wide. “Geralt what… oh-“

Geralt is frozen. The sounds and smells flood him, as he looks out to the main hall his eyes wide. Tables had been brought out; shelves had been pushed aside. A group of children are being ushered away to one of the hallways by faces Geralt recognizes. He begins to hyperventilate, the edges of his vision graying. 

“Witchers?!” Ciri’s voice cracks through the din of silence in his mind.

“Geralt?” Geralt’s throat closes. His head turns molasses slow, to the all too familiar voice that had been robbed from him. His heart skips one, two, and three beats, and he clutches his chest as he gasps for air. The face, the stern gaze with the fatherly warmness that he had missed so much, that had been stolen from them, from all of them looked down to him, quickly changing to concern.

“Help me with him child.”

It’s Vesemir.

Ciri doesn’t get the chance to help him up, in fact, she is right with Geralt as they both dart forward, and the force of the impact against Vesemir topples them all over onto the floor. Geralt feels the wash of tears flood over him as he breathes in the scent of his mentor. He is sobbing and he can hear Ciri and feel her Against him howling. Geralt doesn’t look up, he can’t. If he looks up, if he lets go, it will all be an illusion.

“Can’t… breathe…” He feels strong arms prying at him, and then a helpless whine from the man that’s pinned under him. Vesemir doesn’t whine.

He looks up, and can barely see through the tears, and he sees Vesemir looking down at him, his face red, and his expression pained.

“Geralt…. It’s me, let go… let…”

Geralt lets go, and Ciri immediately takes his place. Vesemir looks at her, his expression shifting as it dawns on him who the tousled haired women in his arms is.

“Ciri… Ciri?” He sits up, and suddenly has her cradled in his arms. Geralt dives in again as Vesemir strokes Ciri’s hair and rocks her softly, and the smell of tears and whispered mutterings of “Your alive!” Stream from the both of them.

When they begin to calm, and Ciri stirs, Geralt is there with her, rubbing at her back as he refuses to take his other hand away from Vesemir’s shoulder. The other witchers have gathered around, and Geralt can see the curious eyes of the young witchers as they watch the breakdown in confusion.

“I suppose, judging by your reaction, you have no idea what happened.” Vesemir sighs, and looks to Ciri, who still has tears in her eyes.

“You were dead…” Ciri blurts, and the others wince from her bluntness.

“So I was, and now, I am not.” Vesemir looks to his body, and moves an arm. “Never felt better actually.”

“How?” Geralt chokes out.

“Where is Eskel and Lambert?” Vesemir’s eyes suddenly take on a worried caste and he looks up to the man who is looming over them. Geralt recognizes him immediately as Master Rennes.

“Ciri, find them, NOW.” Geralt barks out. Ciri doesn’t hesitate. She only pulls herself away far enough that they don’t get swept up in her magic, and she is gone in a bright green flash. 

The hall is silent as they wait.

There is a flash, and Lambert and Eskel stumble forward groaning from the sudden, swift, and unannounced transport.

“Ciri, if you don’t tell us what…” Lambert freezes, his eyes going wide. And then Eskel, noting his sudden hesitation, turns to look as well.

Vesemir stands and opens his arms. In an instant, he is bowled into, by all of them.

Geralt isn’t sure how long they stand there, but he knows he isn’t the only one that had been crying as they pulled apart. The other witchers in the keep look to them strangely, shifting and trying to not intrude on the moment.

“Someone needs to tell me what the FUCK is going on.” Lambert hisses, wiping his eyes.

They all sit down, and they eat, and for the first time in eighty years, the sound of voices fills the keep. Ciri is beside Geralt, squeezing his leg as Vesemir tells the story of what happened, and how he found himself awake again.

Destiny is a strange mistress indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> I would love to hear what you all think! Leave me a message in the comments :) And as always, Kudos and like and share!


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